


221Bs

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Ficlet Collection, Gender or Sex Swap, fem!Moran, fem!Moriarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of BBC Sherlock 221B ficlets. Genderswapped/cisswapped. Various pairings. All chapters stand alone. Check chapter summaries for warnings.</p><p>25. 221b x 5. A 'friends to lovers' story in 5 jigsaw puzzles. Sherlock/John. Rating: Teen.</p><p>For National Puzzle Day. (US, 29 Jan).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Beautiful: Sherlock photographs a sleeping John. Fem!Johnlock  
> 2\. Burberry: Mycroft's surveillance goes too far. (Self-harm, cutting) Fem!mystrade.  
> 3\. Bitch: Even consulting criminals have the occasional _cash flow problem_. The hired gun: not sympathetic. (Implied BDSM) Fem!Mormor  
>  4\. Bow: John reacts poorly to her 'missed Wednesday.' Featuring Dark!Molly. Dark, sad. (Suicide, assisted/enabled suicide, break-up, non-consensual experimentation).  
> 5\. Breakfast: Mystrade Sunday breakfast in bed is interrupted by an odd text. If a woman's home is her castle, why is Sherlock handing over the keys to 221B? The answer is in [Chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2393858/chapters/5294099) of the [John 5+1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2393858/chapters/5290133).  
> 6\. Boss: Moriarty goes to confession. Predictable sacrilege ensues. (Reference to child abuse, profane use of religious spaces & symbols).  
> 7\. Blender: Vegan vampire Lestrade meets a girl! There's one catch...  
> 8\. Badger: Sherlock and John's sex holiday is delayed by a furry foe. Inspired by [this news story](http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/badger-shuts-down-luxury-stockholm-hotel/ar-AA9s80U) about a badger in a luxury Stockholm hotel.  
> 9\. Best: Sherlock is a lactation consultant. John’s a new mom. For a case! Boob crack.  
> 10\. Brilliant: Post-split, Sherlock and John meet at a crime scene. Sherlock/Victor Trevor. Past Sherlock/John. John & Anderson.  
> 11\. Belongs: Sherlock and John are paintings. Post-Reichenbach reunion crack.  
> 12\. Bohemianism. Now in their retirement, Mycroft, Lestrade, and John take a painting class.  
> 13\. Biscuits. John makes a declaration at Mrs. Hudson's church fete (or how a ceramic frog smoking a pipe joined the skull and the Lucky Cat on the mantle of 221B). Fluff.  
> 14\. [More] Biscuits. John gets a new mug. Sherlock/John. Pre-slash. Fluff.  
> 15\. Bastard. John goes undercover to catch a rapist. Songfic.  
> 16\. Brother/Boring/BANG. Sherlock & John meet at the suicide chips stand. Sherlock & John. Mjr Deaths. Darkfic.  
> 17\. Beautifully / Boundless. 221b x 2. Sherlock & John surprise each other with hidden expertise and sentiment. Fluff. Rating: Teen.  
> 18\. Bee boots. Sherlock & John discuss retirement. Rating: Gen. Fluff.  
> 19\. Blogger. Why am I here, Sherlock? Sherlock & John. H/C. Warning for suicidal thinking.  
> 20\. Book. Sherlock’s hand was John’s favourite bookmark. Rating: Teen. pre-Johnlock. Inspired by [book porn](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/165784032957).  
> 21\. Bother. 'Daddy Can Fix It' disappoints Mrs. Hudson. At first. Sherlock & John meet-cute. Rating: Gen  
> 22\. Blood. Niccolò Paganini's bloodletting kit comes to 221b. Sherlock & John. Warnings for self-harm, cutting.  
> 23\. Boots. On New Year's Eve, John returns from the pub early. Pining!John. Angst  
> 24\. Birthday. Sherlock & birthday sex. Ace!Sherlock. Mentions of assisted masturbation and sex toy.  
> 25\. Brahms/Bolognese/Back/Beg/Bespoke. A love story in 5 puzzles. Sherlock/John. Rating: Teen.

“I took a photograph. Last night. While you were sleeping.”

John frowns; she hugs the sheet tighter around her chest.

“Why?”

 

 

**May I**

**Yes. SH**

Sherlock huffs.

_John’s requests for leave, permission, consent._

_Yes, yes, yes. The answer is always ‘yes,’ John._

_The question? Immaterial. Tedious._

_Gall bladder, post-spontaneous rupture, such as the one before me?_

_Not tedious. At. All._

 

 

_Sitting room. Dark._

Sherlock hangs up her coat.

_Kitchen. Dark._

Sherlock mounts the stairs.

Quiet knock. Gentle push.

_Dark. No John._

_Hallway. Dark._

_Toilet. Dark._

_My bedroom._

Sherlock smiles.

_Leave, permission, consent. Yes, yes, yes. The answer is always ‘yes,’ John._

 

 

Black-and-white tableau courtesy of streetlight filtering through the half-drawn window.

_John asleep on her side. Bare shoulder. Scar. White sheet draping low. Bare back. Hint of a cleft. Swell of a breast. Hair mussed. Eyes closed._

_Expression, content. Like she belongs there._

_She does._

Sherlock leans closer.

_Expression, sated._

Sherlock counts pillows.

_One underneath her._

_Oh, John. You never need permission to crawl naked in my bed and pleasure yourself._

_With or without me._

_Beautiful._

_Mine._

_Capture her. Pin her like a butterfly under glass._

_Just. Like. This._

Click!

 

 

“ _This_ is what you see when you look at me?”

Sherlock schools her voice to its softest register.

“It’s a photograph, John. It’s how you _are_.”

They speak in unison:

“Beautiful.”

 


	2. Burberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's surveillance goes too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's coat is a gift from Mycroft and shows up in other stories: Champagne Nights and Lipstick Stamps. It's a Burberry Westminister Long in Honey.

“How could you know that, Mycroft? Unless you bugged my flat?”

“Gregory...”

“The camera outside my door? Fine. But this is too much. You will personally remove every listening device in this residence.”

The ‘or else’ went unstated.

Mycroft looked at the letter opener on her desk.

 

 

The following evening, Lestrade and a young woman entered the flat, laughing.

Mycroft weighed the letter opener in her hand.

_Pretty. Faultless skin. Unmarred. Oh, let’s not be coy: unscarred._

The girl left the next morning.

 

“Junior officer. Nothing happened. Slept on the sofa after a row with the boyfriend. You need to trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you.”

“Then why? Police officer can’t protect herself in her own home?”

“Nonsense.”

Lestrade sighed.

Mycroft twisted the letter opener lightly in her palm.

“The Eastern European tour was _protracted_. Hearing you, clink of cutlery, whistling when you do the washing up, arguments with the television, all of it, sounded like _home_. Hotel rooms in Budapest, Istanbul, Kiev, became _bearable_. The vibrator and my name on your lips were just the icing on the proverbial cake.”

“Christ, Mycroft, only you can make a complete violation of privacy sound _romantic_.” Pause. “Send a car and we’ll talk.”

Mycroft dropped the letter opener. Some minutes later, she watched the screen and licked her lips.

_Naked beneath the Burberry._


	3. Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even consulting criminals have the occasional _cash flow problem_. The hired gun: not sympathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's ensemble: [Battenburg by Mimi Holliday](http://dentellesetfroufrous.tumblr.com/post/95550536653/battenburg-by-mimi-holliday). I never look at lingerie these days without thinking about my ladies. And that particular Tumblr is _very_ inspirational. Seb's job inspired by [this](http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702304851104579359141941621778) news story about a electrical substation in California (US).

Seb swore. She left the internet café and strode into the dusty street. A bus overburdened with passengers chugged by. A boy leaned from the open door, singing the names of streets.

“Where’s my money?” growled Seb into her mobile.

“Tiger! How are you?”

“Where. Is. My. Money? Job’s done. I expect payment. Power grids don’t knock themselves out.”

“Well, there’s a slight _cash flow problem_...”

“Your problem. I want my money.”

“My finances are currently under _extensive_ scrutiny and making any large transfers, at the moment, would be most unwise.”

“Sherlock Holmes at you again?”

The woman growled. “No. Her exceedingly tiresome sister. A week, ten days...”

“Ten days! Oh, no! No.” Seb kicked a chicken out of her way. “I’m going to Greece. To the villa. You had better be on the bed when I get there. Looking pretty. Pretty as a child’s birthday cake. And I will take payment until your _assets unfreeze_!”

The woman coughed. “Or...?”

“Or I’ll go back to working at the tea shop. And flirting with Dr. Watson. I _like_ her.” She clicked off the phone and smiled.

 

 

The sea breeze lifted the white linen draped along the canopy frame.

Seb drew the leather tip of the crop up the back of one thigh. She watched the pink-and-yellow lace dampen and cooed.

“My _bitch_.”

 


	4. Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reacts poorly to her 'missed Wednesday.'

“You’re a sloppy eater.”

John felt her mind detach from her body, and she watched the rest of the conversation from a spot on the wall.

“You put it in my...”

“Breakfast.”

“And?”

“Monitored you for thirty-three hours. Vital signs, blood, urine, hair.”

“Like a monkey, guinea pig, rat.”

“I had tried it on myself previously.”

“Did you...” Pause. “... _molest_ me?”

Sherlock recoiled. “No! John! I’m not a...”

“I don’t know what you are.”

John stared at the elegant hand reaching out to her. It moved in slow motion, like a nocturnal creature emerging from a rock at dusk. It stopped and fell away.

John looked at Sherlock.

_She’s shrunk. She’s all angles and bones, expensive flesh draped carelessly on wire clothes hangers._

John took the cash from her wallet and dropped the billfold on the table.

“Get some air,” said Sherlock. “And then come back.” She nodded and swallowed loudly. “Get some air. Then come back.”

There was only one word left to say.

“Idiot.”

 

 

“Where is she?!” cried Sherlock.

“Morgue,” said Molly quickly. The door closed. Molly gave a thoughtful nod. “Or she will be.”

 

 

John stared down at the pavement, felt the sun and wind on her cheek.

“Need a push?”

She turned her head and nodded. Then, she spread her arms wide and took her last bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mystrade Sunday breakfast in bed is interrupted by an odd text from Sherlock. If a woman's home is her castle, why is Sherlock handing over the keys to 221B? Follows [Chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2393858/chapters/5294099) of the [John 5+1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2393858/chapters/5290133).

“You do that to show off,” said Lestrade, pointing to the crossword puzzle completed in ink.

“What’s the point of being brilliant if I can’t show off? Maybe I’m trying to impress you.” Mycroft lifted a piece of toast to Lestrade’s mouth.

Lestrade bit and chewed. “Mmm. Sunday morning. Together. Impressive.”

The bed was scattered with crumbs and marmalade drops and sections of newspapers and _The History of the Peloponnesian War_.

_Beep!_

“Ugh! Me!” After a few moments, Mycroft removed her heavy-framed glasses and offered them to Lestrade.

“It’s not a question of legibility, love. It’s a question of interpretation.”

“A puzzle? I’m quite good at puzzles.” Mycroft’s mouth twitched in a smile.

“John is in Dublin this week. Medical conference.”

“Mm.”

“And Sherlock’s in Paris, giving testimony.”

“Yes.”

“Your sister requests that we shag on every piece of furniture in the flat while they’re away.”

“My Dear, Sherlock is positively feral about her territory. I doubt she’s inviting an enemy—her archenemy—with exquisite consort,” she kissed the top of Lestrade’s hand, “behind the gates.”

Lestrade handed her the phone.

“Interpret for yourself, puzzle-master.”

Mycroft frowned at the screen and then passed it back, nodding. She reached for Thucydides.

“No.”

“No!” agreed Lestrade. “It’s a complete violation of...It’s _indecent_.” She folded the Sport section.

They locked eyes.

“After breakfast.”


	6. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty goes to confession. Predictable sacrilege ensues. (TW: reference to child abuse, profaning of religous spaces & symbols)

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been eighteen years since my last confession.”

“Welcome back, my Child.”

“My sins are: murder, murder for hire...”

“...and forty-two library books never returned.”

“My Dear, seek professional counselling. You’re suffering from delusions.” The woman chuckled. “Is this a joke? How dare you! The confessional should be sacrosanct!”

“So should altar boys’ bums.” Loud coughing covered the _whizz_ through the lattice. She removed the lower panel and crawled under it. She switched on the green light.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.”

“Welcome, my Child,” she said, dropping her voice.

“My sins are: lying...”

“..., and being horrid to the Missus.”

“You’re forgetting one: not rendering unto Moriarty what is Moriarty’s.”

A second _whizz_ covered the gasp. More coughing. She crawled back and emerged, turning the sign to read ‘Out to Lunch.’ A puzzled look met her.

“Father’s not feeling well, Sister, but look! Lunchtime!”

“Sisters! Bus’s waiting!”

As the flock of black-and-white spilled onto the pavement, one drifted toward the street.

“Where to, Sister?”

Seb admired her handiwork in the rear view mirror. If not for the serpentine green eyes, even she would not recognize her passenger.

“Ice that wrist and take your painkillers. You are officially off ‘light duty.’ _Legwork_. _Ugh!_ ”

“Yes, Boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I wanted to show Moriarty in 'work mode.' As much as she empathizes with Sherlock (and Mycroft, as seen her in her disgust for legwork!) and adores Seb, she's still a psychopath, with a job.


	7. Blender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegan vampire Lestrade meets a girl! There's one catch...
> 
> Inspired by this [tumblr post](http://darkwater-smidge.tumblr.com/post/77354502663/so-i-learned-from-my-friend-that-coconut-water-can%22) about the use of coconut water in emergency blood transfusions and the implications for vampires.

“John! I met a girl!”

“Where’ve you been?! It’s almost dawn!” John unpinned two dark sheets from the line and handed one to Lestrade. “Your cocoon.”

“She’s amazing!”

“They’re always amazing. Hope you’re not starved. Dinner will be a light affair.”

“Whatever. She’s gorgeous and smart, _so_ _smart_ , and sophisticated. She’s got a sister! You might like her.”

“Sure.” John handed her a glass. “Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers. She likes umbrellas!” said Lestrade, removing the tiny parasol before sipping.

“What’s the catch?”

Lestrade looked away and quickly drank the concoction. They each wrapped a dark sheet around themselves and settled into their hammocks.

“Out with it. Wait, you said ‘girl.’ An _actual_ girl?!”

“No, she’s a vampire, like us.”

“And we don’t know her?! Is she from the mainland?”

“Uh…sort of…I want to invite her and her sister for drinks.”

John shrugged. “Alright.”

“Frozen Bloody Marys?”

“I make a decent Bloody Mary.”

“Real ones?”

John peeked out from the sheet, eyes wide with horror.

“She drinks blood. She’s European. Apparently, they all do!”

“Animal blood?!” cried John, cringing.

Lestrade shook her head. “Human.”

“Holy Mary! Haven’t they heard of coconut water?!”

“No. She’d never seen a coconut until today. Only drawings.” Lestrade flashed big brown doe-eyes at John. “I really like her.”

“Alright, but you’re getting me a second blender.”


	8. Badger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's sex holiday is delayed by a furry foe. Inspired by [this news story](http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/badger-shuts-down-luxury-stockholm-hotel/ar-AA9s80U) about a badger in a luxury Stockholm hotel.

“It crossed the line!”

John approached the table by the window with two coffees.

“It?”

“That _Meles meles_!”

Sherlock glared at the entrance to the hotel across the street. A small crowd had gathered in front of the police cordon.

“Let’s drink our coffee,” said John, setting the cups down and lifting a phrasebook from her pocket. “You can correct my pronunciation, and in no time, wildlife services will be here to take care of the situation and we’ll commence our…”

“Sex holiday! You don’t need to know any Swedish, John. We’re on sex holiday!” cried Sherlock.

John glanced nervously around them, but everyone seemed focused on the commotion outside.

“It’s been a rough month, Sherlock. Long cases, long hours at the surgery, court dates, that unfortunate rash…”

“Exactly! I’ve got a bag,” Sherlock kicked the small suitcase under the table, “of lube and toys and brand-new silk and lace and satin confections, just waiting for the unveiling, and that _beast_ is denying us access! Like some sort of…”

“Furry Gandalf the Grey?” suggested John. “ _You shall not pass!_ ” She giggled. “Christ, I do need this holiday. I am losing it.”

Sherlock rose and donned her black gloves. “ _I_ am going to take care of the situation!”

John shook her head slowly and watched Sherlock march across the street.

“Poor badger!”


	9. Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a lactation consultant. John’s a new mom. For a case! Boob crack.

“Not how you perform a breast examination, Sherlock!”

“Exquisite.”

“You’re the worst lactation consultant. Ever!”

“Nonsense. No one knows your breasts better than I do.”

“This the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done!”

“Afghanistan.”

“This is more ridiculous. And dangerous. Figure out how your _colleague_ was murdered. Now! Before anyone realizes this child,” John lifted the tiny bundle cradled in her arms, “is gone and has us arrested for kidnapping!” She smacked Sherlock’s hand and adjusted her hospital gown. “Stop that!”

Sherlock stepped away from the bed and looked through the open adjoining door. “Mother’s asleep...”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s exhausted from pushing _this_ out of her! We’re going to send her the Maserati of prams when this is over! Anonymously, of course. Or from our cells in Pentonville.”

“…baby’s asleep, change of shift…”

“Case, Sherlock! And there’s a child present!”

“Already solved. Observe.” Sherlock produced a screwdriver and rolled a nearby table closer. A bit of twisting and the side of the green-grey machine came off.

John peered inside. “Oh my god! They booby-trapped the breast pump!”

“I applaud your choice of words. Now, our friend here goes back where she belongs,” Sherlock scooped up the baby and strode through the connecting door. “And I can resume my examination. After all, John,” she reappeared, holding up a pamphlet, “’Breast is best!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a baby three weeks ago. Yea! Complications ensued and we were in and out of hospitals and doctor's offices for two weeks. Now we're home and I can write a bit. I've been reading these lists of nutty AUs ideas/prompts on Tumblr and thought of this one. Needless to say, I didn't bring up my nursing kink fics with the Lactation Consultants I met :)
> 
> ...Good to be back. Hope my readers are well.


	10. Brilliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10\. Brilliant: Post-split, Sherlock and John meet at a crime scene. Sherlock/Victor Trevor. Past Sherlock/John. John & Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor is played by Idris Elba.

“You look good,” said John.

“Your new address suits you,” said Sherlock. “You’ve gained four kilos.”

“Turns out the whole street is not very clever. I fit right in. Plus, Anderson eats a lot of breakfast cereal.”

“Drinks a lot of beer, too.”

John shrugged. “Video games. The occasional pub night.”

“Scintillating. Doesn’t tax your feeble brain.”

“Doesn’t break my feeble heart, either. Well, good to see—.” John stared at the man approaching. “Victor took the room upstairs.”

“Not that we need two.”

“Hello, John.”

John extended her hand. “Hello, Victor. Thanks for forwarding the post.”

His hand shook hers, then flew back to a paper cup. “No problem. Finally got my cuppa. Sherlock’s banned tea from the flat. A man can only drink so much coffee!”

John laughed, then, eyeing his suit, said, “You make a good-looking pair. Certainly kindred spirits with regard to wardrobe.”

“I told Sherlock: no using my jumpers for experiments or fire-extinguishing!”

Sherlock huffed. “This is boring. John.”

John nodded as she walked away.

Victor sipped. “I’m glad there are no hard feelings, John.”

“She needs an assistant, and I wasn’t taking the piss. You do look good together. Best to you both.”

* * *

John found the blue-plastic-covered shoulder she sought and tapped it. Then she held up a plastic rectangle. “Forgot this.”

Anderson smiled. “You’re brilliant!”

 

 

 


	11. Belongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is Monet's "Woman with a Parasol-Facing Right"; Sherlock is Monet's "Woman with a Parasol-Facing Left."
> 
> Crack. Post-Reichenbach reunion fic. Based on [this tumblr](http://mswitek.tumblr.com/post/110555540733/they-had-not-been-seen-together-in-the-museum) post about these two paintings being displayed once again, side by side in the Musee d'Orsay in Paris.

An ant army of workers marched into the room with a draped canvas.

“Not more Cézanne still life. Looking at fruit all day makes me hungry,” John whined.

The fabric fell away.

John stared, then her wires snapped and she crashed to the floor.

The army shrieked. Half scurried to John; the other half carried Sherlock, as if on royal palanquin, towards the wall.

“My dear John, I had no idea you would be so affected.”

“Sherlock? Is it really you? Is it possible that you survived being stolen by that dastardly art thief Moriarty?”

“It is. I did. But I cannot take all the credit for my return. That Interpol chap Lestrade is not as dim as he seems.”

“So he can do something other than stare at naked Rodins all day.”

“Indeed. I’ve been traveling, but also spent time with a Grueze.”

With John restore to her wires and Sherlock securely mounted, the ants dispersed.

“I’m so overjoyed to see you, Sherlock, I could twirl this silly parasol. Shall we do as before?”

“Naturally, John. Deduce the tourists.”

“Take the piss out of the Pissarros.”

“But Lestrade needs my help in finding _Le pigeon aux petits pois_.”

“Later. Now I just want to look at you.”

“And I, you. It is so nice to be back where one belongs.”


	12. Bohemianism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12\. Bohemianism. Now in their retirement, Mycroft, Lestrade, and John take a painting class.
> 
> For the LJ fan_flashworks prompt: rose. According to Greenaway's [Language of Flowers](https://archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree), guelder roses mean 'winter' and 'age' and china rose means 'beauty always new.'

John squinted. “Very nice. Abstract. Mine’s more impressionistic, I think.”

Lestrade huffed. “Those white flowers—“

“Guelder rose,” announced Mycroft. “From the Dutch province of Guelderland where—“

“Oh, who cares?!” snapped Lestrade. “They drove me mad so I thought try the bowl of apples. It does look like a bowl of apples, doesn’t it?”

“Bit,” said John. “Or kiwi. Or rotten peaches.”

“I’m hungry. Whose idea was this anyway?”

“How lovely, Mrs. Holmes!” cried a high-pitched voice. “Class, please, if you have a moment, stop by and look at this! Magnificent brushstrokes!”

Lestrade rolled her eyes.

John shrugged. “She has an advantage. Vernet in the blood.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Sherlock?”

“Tidying her papers.”

“Right.”

“Really, she said—“

“That’s all for today, class!”

The door swung open.

“Forget about your aging winter flowers, ladies! Here is a vibrant, tropical specimen!”

Sherlock strode in, barefoot, wearing a bright red dressing gown. She moved upstream through the exiting crowd to the centre of the room. She let the dressing gown fall to the floor and struck a pose.

“Well, that kills the muse,” said Mycroft, adjusting her glasses. “Lunch, my dear?”

“Yes!” cried Lestrade.

“Where are you going?” called Sherlock. “John?”

“Don’t worry, my china rose,” said John, taking up her brush and a clean sheet of paper. “They simply lack our natural Bohemianism.”


	13. Biscuits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biscuits. John makes a declaration at Mrs. Hudson's church fete (or how a ceramic frog smoking a pipe joined the skull and the Lucky Cat on the mantle of 221B). Gen-rated fluff.
> 
> For the 2016 LJ Watson's Woes #12 prompt of a photo of [a ceramic frog smoking a pipe,](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1552218.html)

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared. With her peripheral vision, she noted that the half dozen ladies milling about the stall did also.

“As a f-f-friend?” She did not want to get it wrong. “The way you love…” Sherlock’s eyes fell to the jumble of items on the table and rested on a ceramic frog smoking a pipe.

Bad metaphor. Did anyone love that? Certainly not, because even its original owner was trying to pawn it off on someone else.

John smiled. “That way too, but, um, I know it’s not the right time or place to make any declaration, but, well, you’ve been awake seventy-two hours straight hunting—successfully, I might add—a serial killer. And now you’re here, with biscuits that you baked for Mrs. Hudson’s church fete. You’re extraordinary.”

Sherlock looked at the plastic container in her hand.

“John, you have been by my side for those seventy-two hours—well, except for the ninety minutes you kipped behind the snacks machine at Scotland Yard—and now you’re here, persuading strangers to purchase previously-owned white elephants and,” Sherlock picked up the frog and turned it towards John, “other nausea-provoking breakables. Your declaration, your admiration, your sentiment is more than reciprocated.”

There was clapping.

Mrs. Hudson wiped a tear with her handkerchief and thanked Providence that she’d forgot the biscuits.


	14. [More] Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a new mug. Sherlock/John. Fluff. Pre-slash.
> 
> Inspired by my [new mug](http://okapi1895.livejournal.com/34291.html).

“Sherlock, what’s this? New mug?”

“Very observant, John.”

“For me? I mean, it’s red and wearing a woolly jumper, one that resmbles,” John looked down, “my woolly jumper. And my underpants are, in fact, just this colour of…well, you don’t need to know about that, do you? Is it for me, the mug?”

“Naturally.”

“You mean, you bought me something? And it’s not even Christmas yet! Well, that’s, that’s…”

“What?”

“Thoughtful. Lovely. Charming. Are you ill?”

John strode to the sitting room and placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock snorted.

“One might suspect that you cared. About me, that is,” said John. “What with you giving me thoughtful, lovely, charming gifts and all.”

Sherlock flipped a page of her journal. “Where do you get your funny ideas, John?”

John smiled. “Tea?”

“Finally!”

“No need to be dramatic.”

“John.”

“I know, it’s what you do.” John returned to the cupboard. “Oh, there’s a matching black one, _sans_ jumper.”

Sherlock huffed.

“I suppose they don’t make blue scarves for mugs. Wait, Sherlock, where are the other mugs? I thought you were being thoughtful and lovely and charming! But you destroyed all our mugs in some experiment? When? Yesterday while I was at work?”

“Does the latter negate the former, John?”

Grey eyes pleaded; brown eyes soften.

“No, I suppose not. Biscuits?”


	15. Bastard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes undercover to catch a rapist. Warning for coercive language and intended rape and roofies in drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ Watson's Woes comm 2016 WAdvent open prompt day #2. The prompt was: Recycle Title: take the title of a favourite carol or holiday film and use it as your inspiration. 
> 
> Note: Not my favourite carol, but one I'm sick of hearing. Be gone, date-rapey tune!

“Here you go.”

“Oh, thank you, but I really can’t stay.”

“But, baby, it’s cold outside. C’mon, on the house and my specialty. How can you refuse? It’ll hurt my pride if you don’t at least try it. You said you liked it here.”

“I do! The evening has been so very nice. Look, I really can’t stay.”

“It’s bad out there, no cabs to be had out there. Look out the window at the storm.”

“Well, maybe just half a drink more.”

* * *

“Say what’s in this drink?”

“Barman’s secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Ha! Well, it’s good, but I got to get home.”

“What’s your hurry, beautiful?”

“My sister will be suspicious. My maiden aunt’s mind is vicious.”

“Doubt their lips are half as delicious as yours.”

“What?!”

“My apologies. Got carried away. At least let me walk you to the tube. Sal will cover.”

“I don’t think—“

“My life long sorrow, if you got pneumonia and died."

“Oh, all right. Whoa!”

“You need a steady hand. Luckily I got two.”

* * *

“Who are you?!”

“Her maiden aunt.”

_THUNK!_

“And I’m the sister. With the handcuffs. And the badge.”

_Click!_

“Donovan got the sample?”

“Yeah, quick statement, then Sherlock’s taking you home to sleep it off.”

_THUNK!_

"Ugh!"

“Sherlock! That’s enough.”

“Is it cold outside, bastard?”


	16. Brother/Boring/BANG.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John meet at the suicide chips stand. Sherlock & John. **Major character deaths. Double suicide pact. Darkfic. Please heed the warnings!** Angst. Drug use. Implied Prostitution. Alternate First Meeting. Dialogue from "The Lying Detective."

“C’mon!” she cried. “I’m suicidal. I’m allowed chips, trust me. It’s about the only perk.”

“Not without payment first.”

She raised an eyebrow, then blew him a kiss.

“No.”

She glanced at the rain and huffed, then looked back at him. “Next week’s winning numbers?”

“Nice try. Cash or on your way.”

“Here,” I said, taking the last note from my wallet. “On me.”

“You’ve got a benefactor tonight, Sherlock.”

Our eyes met.

“Thank you. This seat taken?”

I shook my head.

Hers was a mercifully silent restlessness.

She studied me as I studied her, without words, but I suspected those grey eyes, like Borgia pearls, cursed, fabled, saw much more than mine ever would. With the greasy mound consumed, she said,

“I am right, aren’t I? About the chips?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Waiting for the rain to stop?”

I nodded.

“Still got your phone?”

“Uh, no, I don’t have a—wait, sorry, yeah.”

“May I?”

“Sure.”

I handed her the phone. She sent a message, then handed it back.

“Well, that’s taken care of.”

I glanced at the rain. It was slowing, almost enough, but then her words caught up with me.

“I apologise if I’m presuming, but did you just send a suicide note from my phone?!”

She shrugged. “Read it yourself.”

**If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH**

“A case,” she said. “I help the police.”

What?

I shook my head once, then sighed. My leg ached. Whatever.

“Indeed,” she said. “Want to put a twist on your end?”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because you can. Ever seen ‘Strangers on a Train’?”

I felt one corner of my mouth lift involuntarily. “Yeah.”

“Give me yours.” She leaned back and nodded at my waist. “I’ll give you mine.”

From a deep coat pocket, she produced a small case with a beautifully and intricately carved lid. One flash of its velvet-lined interior, and her meaning was clear.

“How do I know…?” I asked.

“How do I…?” she countered. “You might not have any bullets…Captain.”

I started.

She smirked. “Shot in the dark, good one, though. It’s dry enough now. Where?”

“By the water,” I said without hesitation.

She nodded. “My thought exactly.”

I eased off the stool and reached for my cane.

We’d crossed three streets when I stopped and said,

“No offense, but I’d rather be alone.”

“Sorry,” she said. “My legs are fathoms longer than yours. And they both work. And I’m high. And rude. I’ll try and go slowly. And not huff impatiently—very often.”

“Why bother? The river’s big enough for both us, I think.”

“True, but I thought…”

“What?”

“With you, it might not be boring.”

* * *

“…and then she said, ‘Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.’”

“Ah. One of those,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“But she sounds like she cares, about you, I mean.”

“Is it enough?” she asked, reaching a deft hand into my jacket. She held the phone up before my face and tapped the inscription with one finger.

I sighed. “No, it isn’t.” I grabbed the phone from her hand and launched it into the water.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready when you are.”

* * *

“Thank you,” I said. I pushed my shirt sleeve down and tugged my jacket tight around me. “My bloody hand.”

“Mine shake, too, not as bad as yours, of course, but...” She pursed her lips, then said, “I won’t, until I’m certain that you’re gone.”

“I appreciate that, Sherlock.”

“Ah, you were paying attention. Funny name, isn’t it, for one so dark?”

“It’s nice, and it suits you. I’ll try to remember it. Sherlock,” I repeated.

“For?”

“The next go ‘round. I think, with you, it wouldn’t be boring.”

She smiled. “Guaranteed. Until next time, then.”

She sat in perfect stillness, gun in her lap, and I didn't reach for her hand when I said,

“So this is how it goes, light, then darkness, then—“

BANG! 


	17. Beauitfully/Boundless.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17\. Beautifully / Boundless. 221b x 2. Sherlock & John surprise each other with hidden expertise and sentiment. Fluff in a smut setting. Rating: Mature.

“I never get your limits, John,” breathed Sherlock.

“One,” replied John, turning her head to brush her lips across Sherlock’s sweat-damp temple, “two cases, two days, I’ll be lucky if I stay awake through one orgasm.”

Sherlock bit John’s shoulder playfully. “Two high profile cases of poisoning in forty-eight hours solved thanks to information provided by you.” She began to nuzzle at John’s neck and lick along her nape.

“Police would’ve found the tampered tea in the first victim’s flat.”

“Eventually.”

“Poor woman. She liked tea even more than I do. Very posh kettle. Very posh teas in very posh tins. All labeled and organised.”

“But you knew the oolong wasn’t oolong with one sniff.”

“Hmm,” said John as her hips ground into the pillow and Sherlock’s hips ground into her. “Thank goodness you were distracting Anderson with abuse long enough for me to get curious.”

“And when Morgan the poisoner—“

“Is that what I’m calling him?”

“Yes, do keep up. When he tore up that note in front of us and threw the pieces in the air like confetti—“

“You went after the bastard.”

“And you stayed and put the pieces back together in mere moments.”

“Jigsaw puzzles are a staple part of rehabilitation centre life, Sherlock. I got very good at them.”

“John, you conduct light beautifully.”

* * *

“My pleasure,” said John.

Sherlock snaked a hand between John’s body and the bed. Her fingers found John’s nipple.

“Oh, God, that wasn’t what I meant, but yeah, that’s `my pleasure, too. Keep doing that, Sherlock, right there.” John sighed and pushed into Sherlock’s touch. “Well, I learned something about you, too, Sherlock.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Tonight, while you were out picking up the curry, a lady dropped by to have her photo taken at the front door.”

Sherlock hummed. “Tourists from the internet. Hate ‘em.”

“Oh, don’t feign ignorance,” said John. “This lady had her new puppies with her, the ones she just adopted, the ones that were named ‘Sherlock’ and ‘John’ by an anonymous benefactor who pledged a ludicrous amount of money to anyone who could give the pair of them a good home and rescue them from a fate I’d rather not contemplate for such adorable bits of black and blonde fluff.”

“And you think I had something to do with it?”

“Yes, I think you were behind the whole sentimental scheme. You, Sherlock Holmes, thinking machine.”

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek and ground harder into her.

“Cold.”

Kiss.

“Calculating.”

Kiss.

“The very opposite of a puppy-rescuing hero. So, see? You still surprise me, too, every day.“

“Here’s to limits,” said Sherlock as John teetered on the edge of climax, “most boundless.”


	18. Bee Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John discuss retirement. Gen. Fluff. Reference to canon story "The Cardboard Box."

“…shopping, John? Pathetic attempt to conceal it. Behind the sofa. You’ve taken the purchase out of the original packaging. But do you really think that a so-called plain cardboard box holds no clues for the world’s only consulting detective? For starters—“

“Sherlock.”

“It’s for me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I ruined the surprise, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but, Sherlock, yesterday you asked me a serious question, or at least I hope it was serious, because I haven’t been thinking of much else since then.”

“Yes, you were especially distracted this morning, although I confess I was bored myself as the ears in the cardboard box were, lamentably, the case’s only feature of interest. The rest was sisters, jealousy, and an angry, violent man who ‘just can’t help himself.’ Nothing new there. I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s why I’m talking too much.”

“Sussex. You, me. Retirement. Bees. Garden. The whole lot.”

Sherlock nodded. “Southern slope of the downs. View of the Channel, chalk cliffs.”

“Have you bought the cottage, Sherlock?”

Sherlock went to the bookcase and produced a thin cardboard box. “Papers are ready for signature or signatures.”

“Ours?”

“Ours.”

“Well, then I’ve got my answer.” John retrieved the box from behind the sofa and opened it.

Sherlock’s mouth formed a perfect O. Then she exclaimed,

“[Bee boots](http://nadanzum.tumblr.com/post/162545614729/gucci-patent-leather-ankle-boot-with-bee)!”


	19. Blogger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why am I here, Sherlock? Sherlock & John. H/C. Warning for suicidal thinking.

Footsteps on the stairs. Creak of the door.

“John.”

John did not look up.

“Why am I here, Sherlock?” she asked the gun in her hand. “You don’t need someone share the rent.”

“I dislike asking Mycroft for money.”

“You don’t need me to think. You don’t need me to accompany you to crime scenes. I ask stupid question.”

“Stupid questions lead to clever answers.”

“On rare occasion.”

“You shot a man who tried to kill me.”

“You said yourself he wouldn’t have succeeded.”

“There’s the blog.”

“You’ve a website.”

“No one reads my website. Yours brings in cases with features of interest.”

“On rare occasion. Why am I _here_?”

John looked up.

Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“You make me look taller.”

John laughed, then nodded.

“Thinner. More attractive.”

John sighed. “It’s enough: to make you look good. Maybe I should write it down somewhere so I don’t forget. A note to self.”

She put the gun back in the case, the case back in the drawer, and shut the drawer.

“John, are you amenable to a strong clasping about the arms?”

“Yeah.”

They hugged.

“So, case?” asked John, her face buried in dark wool.

After a long silence, John looked up.

“Sherlock?”

“Thinking.”

“Case?”

“No. Note to self. ‘I am to see to it that I do not lose my blogger.’”


	20. Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s hand was John’s favourite bookmark. Rating: Teen. pre-Johnlock. Inspired by [book porn](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/165784032957).

Sherlock’s hand was John’s favourite bookmark.

Her middle two fingers were sunk between two pages whilst her little finger, index finger, and thumb held the book up, spine on the desk.

Like the rest of her, Sherlock’s fingers were long and elegant, though often stained with chemicals, and their extraordinary delicacy of touch was on display whenever she manipulated fragile instruments, musical as well as scientific one.

John liked to watch Sherlock’s hands in motion, at the violin, as illustration or embellishment to speech, fluttering, flourishing, pointing, waving dismissively. Dancing spiders. Birds in flight. Even now, when they were ostensibly at rest, they conveyed strength. And beauty.

Especially as they parted pages, sheaves, leaves, folds…

“John?”

Sherlock smirked. The book landed with a thud on the desk.

“Yes?”

“The library. Pack a bag.”

“Overnight?”

“ _The_ library, John. The Bodleian.”

* * *

“Nice case,” I said on the return journey.

“Indeed. You enjoyed yourself.”

“Always. Watching you work.”

“Watching me handle scores of books, too.”

“You do it on purpose.”

“Naturally. Based on your browser history, your consumption on online pornography has dwindled to naught in the past three months.”

“That’s not on, Sherlock, but, yeah, I seem to have lost my taste for it. Wonder why?”

Sherlock leaned forward and covered my hands with hers. “Allow me to read you like a book.”


	21. Bother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bother. 'Daddy Can Fix It' disappoints Mrs. Hudson. At first. Sherlock & John meet-cute. Rating: Gen
> 
> Inspired by this [tumblr post](http://ancientreader.tumblr.com/post/166217258393/shiplocks-of-love-thetimemoves) and for the Kinktober Day 18 prompt: Daddy.

“Mrs. Hudson! It’s a clogged drain! Hardly a plumbing emergency!”

“That drain shouldn’t be clogging, my dear Sherlock, you’ve just moved in. And the washing machine knocks.”

“Everyone’s washing machine knocks!”

“This handyman service came _highly_ recommended.”

“’Daddy Can Fix It’? Ludicrous name.”

“There’s the lorry. How does my hair look?”

“Like it knocks.”

_Knock, knock!_

“Hullo!” cried Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door. “Oh,” she said, her face falling.

“Oh!” said Sherlock, her brows rising.

“Hi, I’m John. Plumbing emergency?”

“I’ve a clogged drain,” said Sherlock, smiling and making a vague gesture towards the stairs behind her.

“Lead on.”

Sherlock turned.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, “are you ‘Daddy’?”

“It’s quite all right if you are,” interjected Sherlock.

John smiled. “No. _That’s_ Daddy.”

“Hello,” said a baritone.

“Oh, my,” breathed Mrs. Hudson.

“Ugh,” said Sherlock.

“Gavin Lestrade. I’m your Daddy.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that,” said Mrs. Hudson, shaking his brawny hand. “I’ve a washing machine that knocks.”

“It’ll purr in no time.”

“Wait, Lestrade? Of Scotland Yard?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh, you know Cousin Puny? I shouldn’t call him that, but he is the ugliest, scrawniest of the Lestrades.”

“I’ve some laundry,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Why not use this?” said Gavin. He ripped his vest off. His pectoral muscles jumped.

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock spoke as one.

“Bother.”


	22. Blood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niccolò Paganini's bloodletting kit comes to 221b. Sherlock & John. Warnings for self-harm, cutting, blood, and a surprise ending.
> 
> [Niccolò Paganini's bloodletting kit](https://www.schubertiademusic.com/items/details/11124-paganini-nicol%C3%B2-the-personal-bloodletting-set-of-paganini) is for sale, by the way, if you've got $25,000 laying about. This is a story I wanted to make into a feature-length fic for Halloween but I never got around to. Also, I was never certain of what 'verse to put it in or what the final end might be. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.

Sarah wasn’t interested. No matter. John wouldn’t dwell on it.

But, of course, she did, and by the time she reached Baker Street, her chest was coiled tight.

Unwanted, unloved, invisible, useless.

The voice in her head was irrational, illogical. She’d never call another what she called herself.

And she was far too distracted. If Sherlock wasn’t home, she’d find a quick release by way of a shameful but efficient habit, and get back to normal.

But Sherlock was home.

“What’s this?” asked John. A walnut box lay on the table.

“Niccolò Paganini’s bloodletting kit,” replied Sherlock without looking up from her computer.

“Paganini? Violinist, yeah? Caprices.”

“Yes, a case for Sotheby’s. Stolen medical antiques.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?” Sherlock slapped the lid of the computer closed. “I’ll be at Barts for the night.”

* * *

When the front door thudded, John opened the box.

Three dome-shaped glasses with brass twist spouts. A brass tool for scarification, six blades, spring loaded.

The reasons she shouldn’t were legion.

She didn’t care. Jumper off. Sleeve rolled.

John was so absorbed in the tool, the scrape, the blood, that she never heard the footsteps.

“How very fortunate,” purred Sherlock, her smile so wide that John could watch, and gasp, as four incisors lengthened, “that you have such poor coping mechanisms and I have a taste for blood.”


	23. Boots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On New Year's Eve, John returns from the pub early. Pining!John. Angst. 
> 
> Inspired by photos of Eva Green (who is the closest human incarnation I have for my beloved Femlock muse) which I can't find anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a lovely week of 'holiday' but of course tomorrow's a new year and one must Make an Effort. Ugh.
> 
> Happy New Year to all my gentle readers.

“You’re back early,” said Sherlock.

John squinted at the clock. There was an 11 and a 5.

She was drunk.

“I’m drunk,” she said. “Didn’t fancy striking midnight at the pub. Christ, look at you.”

Hair mussy. Pink satin. Black lace. Some sort of Victorian nightgown with a plunging V in which John might happily drown. All Sherlock lacked was a long, black, lacquered cigarette holder and plot to frame her lover for her husband’s suicide.

“Smoking’s bad for you, and I haven’t lover—or husband.”

“You look good enough to eat.”

“Bon appétit.”

John ran to her, then stopped, fumbled with her jeans. Once in Sherlock’s lap, she buried her nose in Sherlock’s neck and began to rut at once.

“Gorgeous girl, sweet-smelling siren, brilliant monster.”

John came, but her climax escaped her body and was hovering about in the miasma.

Time passed. Slowly. Quickly. John hadn’t the foggiest.

She squinted at the clock. There was a 12 and a 10.

“Damn. Missed midnight.”

“You’re were coming.”

John chuckled. “Is that what I’m to be doing all year? Christ. You smell so good.”

“Like one of your filthy little tales?”

“Like a dream.”

“That’s because…”

John drew back. That sad smile. “My girl,” she breathed.

“Always, John.”

* * *

“Case,” barked Sherlock from the doorway.

John groaned and reach for her boots.


	24. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & birthday sex. Ace!Sherlock. Mentions of assisted masturbation and sex toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Ace!Sherlock, so be gentle. I identify somewhere on the spectrum myself but am not well versed in nuances.

“Just a joke, Sherlock. Lestrade thinks we’re shagging; today’s your birthday—”

“Thus, we must have plans to engage in sex of a robust or nonconventional nature as a form of celebration.”

“Yes, birthday sex.”

“Lestrade correlated my excitement with the calendar date, when in fact, I was pleased because I had just solved a case in which the murderer was a cephalopod. I give no significance, John—”

“I know. To either, birthday or sex.”

“Do you?”

“What? Want to have sex on your birthday?” John laughed.

Sherlock’s expression did not change.

John frowned. “No.”

Sherlock nodded, but said no more.

* * *

_Knock._

John opened the bedroom door.

“You bought me a birthday card,” said Sherlock. “You didn’t give it to me.”

“You said you didn’t do birthdays.”

“You wouldn’t throw it away. You’d try to reuse it. Don’t. I want it.”

John retrieved a card from the pages of a book on her desk and handed it to Sherlock.

“An otter,” observed Sherlock.

“Looked a bit like you. I was thinking of a pun.”

Sherlock nodded, then looked about the bedroom. “You were planning to masturbate.”

“Sherlock!”

“Your vibrator’s finished charging.” She pointed to the white cord. “Would you like assistance?”

“You don’t—”

“I don’t. You do. Would you like to, with me, here? I'd like that.”

“Well, it _is_ your birthday.”


	25. Brahms/Bolognese/Back/Beg/Bespoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b x 5. A 'friends to lovers' story in 5 jigsaw puzzles. Sherlock/John. Rating: Teen. 
> 
> For National Puzzle Day (US, 29 Jan).

**First Puzzle**

“Jolly flat-warming,” said John. “First week, and we’re snowed in. Luckily, I’ve just the thing.”

Minutes later, she descended the stairs shaking a box. “Gift from Stamford. Two thousand pieces.”

“It should come as no surprise, John, that I love jigsaw puzzles.”

“Me, too. Now let’s see, where…”

The kitchen table was covered with Sherlock’s experiments, the desk with Sherlock’s papers and books.

Sherlock said, “I could tidy up a bit…”

“Not a problem. I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson has a box that we can flatten.”

Five minutes later, they were settled on the floor before the fire.

“I have a system,” said John as she opened the box.

“Me, too,” said Sherlock.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock inserted the last piece. “There. See, John, my system is much more efficient.”

John glared.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “Oh. Bit ‘Not Good’?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

**Second Puzzle**

“For you.”

The box was wrapped in paper and tied with ribbon. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It is a token of gratitude for a year of cohabitation.”

“An anniversary gift?” John shook the box and smiled. “That is a very distinctive rattle.” She unwrapped the box. “’Fredrick the Literate.’ A cat sleeping on a bookshelf. Cute. ‘A Tale of Two Kitties.’ Puns! I love puns. But, uh…”

“I’ll observe. And silently critique. And play. Mendelssohn or Brahms?”

* * *

**Third Puzzle**

“Sherlock, you won’t believe this.”

“Unlikely.”

“Your fans are as extraordinary as you are.”

“Also unlikely.”

“Do you remember our illustrator? The one that creates pictures based on my blog entries?”

“Snatch-et something?”

“No, Paget. Well, someone else took Paget’s drawing of the Dartmoor hound, the dog, not the secret project, and made it into a jigsaw puzzle! Isn’t it something?”

“Indeed.”

“I can’t wait to put it together! When I’m done, I’m going to take a photo of it and post it on the blog.”

“Wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?”

“It might give Snatch-et something’s followers ideas.”

“Sherlock, there is no Snatch-et something!”

“Of course there is. They do the naughty drawings of us.”

“There are naughty drawings of us on the internet?!”

“Oh, John. Brace yourself.”

* * *

**Fourth Puzzle**

“Sherlock, this is so sick!”

“Moriarty’s bored.”

“Why can’t she shoot the walls like a normal genius?!”

“A point I shall archive for future argument, but in the meantime, do get on with it.”

“I have—”

“—fifty-seven minutes, John—”

“—to complete this jigsaw puzzle, and if you stop playing—”

“—the bomb inside my violin will explode.”

“And to think I had a nice table at Angelo’s booked!”

“Really?”

“It _is_ Valentine’s Day.”

“You’ve done so many puzzles, John. Do this one, and it’ll be tiramisu and Bolognese.”

* * *

**Fifth Puzzle**

“For you.”

“What’s this?” John shook the box. “Oh, Sherlock, I don’t know…”

“It’s been ages, John.”

“Yeah, but given the experience with the last one…”

“Precisely. It’s a travesty that you’ve gone off something you used to love because of Moriarty. It’s my fervent hope this puzzle will remedy the situation.”

“Uh, kitchen table?”

“Is clear and will remain so.”

“Very well.” John sat. “The box is blank, Sherlock.”

“Excellent observation, John.”

John shot her a glance then opened the box and rummaged about the pieces.

“Sherlock, where is the picture?”

“That’s the challenge.”

“No picture! That’s not fair. Black and white. It looks to be,” John studied the pieces, “mostly words. Oh, Sherlock, this isn’t the kind of puzzle I like at all!”

Sherlock hummed, then her mobile beeped. “Oh, damn. Case! Come, John.”

John yawned. “You are a devil, Sherlock. I’ve been working on this border for a week! It’s all white, and the centre _is_ nothing but words!”

“You’ve lost a pair of pieces.” Sherlock nodded to the rug.

“How did they get over there? Let’s see. Oh, my God. Sherlock, they fit! ‘Dear John’! Is it a letter? For me?! From you?!”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “That’s the puzzle,” she said plainly. Then her face fell. “Wait, where are you going?!”

“Coffee! I’ll be back!”

* * *

_Dear John,_

_When we first met, I stated that relationships were not my area. They weren’t, and, perhaps, still aren’t. Nevertheless, I am compelled to declared that you, John, are the best friend that anyone might ever wish to have. Not knowing such a relationship was possible for myself, I never wished for one and consider myself amazingly fortunate to have had the opportunity to share a home and a series of incredible adventures with you. My sincere hope is that many years of the same await us._

_I admire your strength and strength of character. I rely, sometimes unduly, on your patience and loyalty. I revel in the warmth of your smile and the music of your laughter. And, to put it quite plainly, I’m smitten. It is no mystery or puzzle why I should be so. You are extraordinary._

_I have reason to believe that my feelings are not wholly unrequited, but if I have erred in this assessment, you may disregard this missive, and we shan’t speak of it again. Regardless, I remain,_

_Yours, and as highly improbable as it may seem, most affectionately,_

_Sherlock_

_PS. I confess that I held back the two pieces that were most critical to your success in the initial stages of completing the puzzle out of sheer trepidation. Your forgiveness, I beg._

* * *

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Sherlock, kissing John’s bare shoulder.

“You can’t deduce it?”

“Lover frowning in one’s bed is more a case of letting I would wait upon I dare not, John.”

“I was thinking about you. Or us, rather. And that it’s a pity the metaphor is all wrong.”

Sherlock pressed a grin to John’s neck. “The English language is disappointing at times. Want to try it all again in French?”

John snorted. “I was thinking that we were like two pieces of a puzzle, different shapes, different angles, but perfectly complimentary, and when we are together, well, the bigger picture is easier to understand, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. That’s a lovely thought.”

John hummed. “But it’s wrong.”

“Why?”

“’Cause we haven’t any knobs! Ha, ha, ha!”

John dissolved in a fit of laughter.

“Oh, John.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” said John between giggles. “If you can’t appreciate a post-coital phallic pun, then this is over before it’s begun.”

“Noted.” Sherlock reached for her mobile.

“Phone in bed?!” John protested.

“Fact-checking,” said Sherlock. “There’s no standard set of terms. Knob and hole is one. But key and lock is another.”

“Really?”

“Internet says so.” Sherlock dropped her phone, then rolled into John’s arms.

“I suppose that makes me an enter- _lock_ -ing piece?” suggested John.

Sherlock smiled. “I’d say the fit’s most bespoke.


End file.
